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  • #4170
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      “What about a plate of shrimps Liz’?”

      “Oh no, not again !” Felicity shrieked at Finnley. “Can’t you get something else on the menu?”

      “Oh, you’re still here?” Liz’ looked apathetically at her mother. “Thought you would be gone by now… Finnley” she motioned at the distant plate “hand over the turmeric. I’m in the mood for an Indian dressing.”

      #4161
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        “What? You can’t leave here, this is where we live! This is where we come from!” shouted John. “And what about your mother, what will she say?”

        “She won’t say anything, will she, she can’t speak anymore,” retorted Stevie, feeling a surge of confidence.

        John’s complexion went an alarming shade of magenta. Gargling with rage he sputtered, “Spawn of the devil, you ungrateful wretch! All these years I’ve treated you as if you were my own flesh and blood…”

        The silence in the room was profound. John took a step backwards, shocked at his own words.

        “You mean to tell me,” said Sara quietly, “That we’re adopted?”

        John tried to meet her eyes with his own and failed, running a hand over his crumpled face instead.

        “I think he means Mum shagged another bloke, Sara.”

        “I say!” exclaimed Clove, “How intriguing!” This was surely the most interesting thing that had happened in the house since she’d been living in it. “Who was their real father then?”

        “You won’t find out from me, you impertinent tart,” replied John.

        #4158

        In reply to: Coma Cameleon

        TracyTracy
        Participant

          At first he’d stayed in the same spot. Waiting, for what he didn’t know, but for someone or something to provide a clue, or a reminder. He’d given up checking his pockets, hoping he was mistaken and that of course he had a wallet, some keys, a phone. But there was nothing. Nothing but that suitcase, lighter than it should have been for its size, because there was nothing it in except a few pairs of underpants and a couple of ties. A toiletry bag, unzipped, with nothing in it but a toothbrush.

          He closed his eyes. Stay in the same spot if you’re lost. Had his mother said that once, long ago? His head hurt with the effort to try and recall.

          He’d found himself sitting in an alley next to a rubbish container, sprawled on the suitcase. Squinting in the shaft of bold sunlight, he automatically reached into his shirt pocket for sunglasses. The pocket was empty. He checked his other pockets, his alarm and confusion growing. Why was he wearing socks but no shoes? He elbowed himself up to a sitting position and noticed the suitcase. A wave of relief washed over him: everything must be inside the suitcase. Relief gave way to horror. It was almost empty. I’ve been robbed! he thought. But what did they take? What did I have in there?

          And then the full realization hit. He had no idea where he was. And no idea who he was.

          Someone will come looking for me, he thought. But who? He weighed up his options. What could he do? Go to the police? And tell them what?

          He shrank back as two women approached, looking down as they glanced at him. They walked past, continuing their conversation. Why were they speaking Spanish? He looked around, noticing a number of signs. Most of them were in Spanish, but some were in English. For a brief moment he was inordinately pleased at the realization that he was English speaking. The first puzzle piece. He was thinking in American English. Therefore, he must be an American. He rubbed his eyes. His headache was getting worse.

          #4143
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            After only one day, Felicity had managed to vex everybody, Liz’ was pleased to notice.
            That would make her retaliation all the sweeter.

            Even the rude but usually pliable maid had thrown her apron in disgust of the unequivocally condescending comments of her mother about the quality of her sardines muffins and anchovy cupcakes.

            The traitor Godfrey was easy enough to bring back to the fold, with a vague promise of peanuts, and was already working on her first plan. Selloselfing everyone to frighten her mother who panicked at the idea of the zumba avocalisp. She’d seen some reportage from International Geogratis of indigenous populations dancing irresponsibly, and had been living in fear ever since.

            As for Roberto, well, Liz’ still believed he was his best and secret weapon. She knew all to well her mother’s appetite for young and firm flesh.

            #4141
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              “Where have you kept my clothes, Liz, the boxes I left here after my last visit?” asked Felicity. Not for the first time Liz pondered the immense unsuitability of that name for a character such as her mother. She should have been named Snipe E Fuckbucket, or Condescendia Critique.

              “Well?” snapped Felicity, “Where are they?”

              “I ripped them all up and made collages.” Liz noted with smug satisfaction the look of horror on her mothers face. “Well, you did ask, last time we met, why I wasn’t creative anymore. I thought you’d approve” she added, knowing full well that she wouldn’t.

              #4139
              Jib
              Participant

                “What do we do with this ?” asked Roberto.
                Felicity removed her sunglasses and looked at the gardener appreciatively. He was wearing his usual dungarees, with no shirt. She then looked at the mannequin covered in maps he was holding in his arms.

                “Put it back in the attic”, said Liz.

                “Don’t tell me you still do collage”, said her Mother. “I could understand, barely, when you were ten years old, but now… Put it in the trash”, she looked at the gardener longer than necessary, “whoever you are.” She turned to her daughter still spread in the sofa. “What’s his name? Are you two… ?”

                “I’m sure Leon and his twin are enough, don’t you think ?” said Liz bitterly. She felt possessive about Roberto, she knew it was silly but she had to get hold on to something before her mother could strip her of her life. An idea began to emerge in her feverish mind. There had been recent articles about a new game attracting swarms of players, she would ask Godfrey to make signs indicating there was a nest of those Pookemoon in her garden, and maybe in the house. People should certainly be more easy to get rid off than rats and roaches…

                #4138
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  “M’am, I am quite honoured to meet you” Godfrey felt the need to add a creeping “Your daughter always speaks highly of you…”

                  “Don’t be silly, dear” cooed the mother “You can call me Felicity, no need to make me feel like a granny.”

                  “Traitor” muttered Liz’ between her teeth. She was spread across the sofa while monitoring the developments of her Mother’s coup and trying to gather her wits and plan her next move. Mother wouldn’t be easily defeated. Last time, Liz’ had to resort to a rats and roaches invasion. Made the house unlivable for months. But quite worth it.

                  “Has your latest gigolo grown tired of you and thrown you out… again?” she interrupted the amiable chatter of her mother and Godfrey.

                  “Dear, dear, don’t brood like that, it makes you look like your father. You know my mother instincts have always been very strong. Call it my antennas if you shall — I can always tell when you’re not right, and I can’t let you down this slope.” She retorted, queenly ignoring the rude comment.

                  #4137
                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    Her mother looked offended “That’s just like you, really. I’ve just arrived darling!”

                    But this was all a carefully crafted facade. She quickly took a more natural, meaner look “Well, if you should ask, as long as it takes to help you get your shit back together. Isn’t it the bee’s knees!”

                    Liz’ felt her usual wits and quick tongue completely floored by her mother’s invading presence. She couldn’t think of a clever thing to say, so she remained silent, while her mother was getting herself settled.

                    “Leon!” the mother waved at one of the muscular studs
                    “Yes, M’am?”
                    “Get those poor souls out of the cellar, will you. We’re in sore need of some cleaning there. And when you’re done, get the gardener to clean the pool. It looks like it’s full of tadpoles.”

                    #4135
                    Jib
                    Participant

                      Liz’ delicate nose quivered at the heavy scent of her mother’s perfume. As long as she could remember, it had created a thickness in the air, moving around in the house, filling in every corner, invading every space.
                      Two men, who looked like those magazine top models, followed in with her mother’s suitcases. They put it in the entrance, got out and came back shortly after with other suitcases. Some were black, some were white, creating an ensemble like a chessboard.
                      “How long are you staying ?” Liz managed to get out of her lumpy throat.

                      #4134
                      ÉricÉric
                      Keymaster

                        The front door rang at the same time.

                        Elizabeth was in the mood to let it ring until whoever was there finally let it go, but there was an imperative and distinct sting in that ring.

                        She wrapped her night gown around her waist, carefully adjusted her towel beehive coiffe, and sluggishly slid on her rabbit slippers to the door. That summer heat was just too unbearable.

                        COMING!” She yelled at the door, estimating her arrival there at another good minute of bunny slipper sliding and slaloming around the scattered mess.

                        When she finally managed to open the door, her worst fears proved true.

                        Elizabeth! What sort of attire is that?! Are you sloshed already?”

                        Liz’ managed a pitiful smile “ Mother, how lovely seeing you here.”

                        “Damn bloody right it is, and not a minute too late, by the look of that place. Having another of your barmy spells haven’t you? I knew something was wrong when that delightful maid of yours stopped phoning in for her daily report. Now, budge up, let me in, take care of that mess of yours.”

                        #4125
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          Corrie:

                          I’m getting a bit worried about Aunt Idle, she’s been in Iceland ages and we haven’t heard from her, and nothing on her blog for ages, either. When I found this, I did a bit of research into the Bronklehampton case. That’s another story.

                          Aunt Idle was going to visit her old friend Margit Brynjúlfursdóttir. It was all very hush hush: Margit had intimated that there was to be a family reunion, but it was to be a surprise party, and she mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Margit had sent her the tickets to Keflavik, instructing her to inform her family and friends that she had won the trip in a story writing competition.

                          It was Idle’s first trip to Iceland. She had met Margit in a beach bar near Cairns some years ago, just after the scandalous expose on the goings on of a mad doctor on a remote south Pacific island. The Icelandic woman had been drowning her sorrows, and Idle had been a shoulder to cry on. The age old story of a wayward son, a brilliant mind, so full of potential, victim of a conniving nurse , and now sadly incarcerated on the wrong side of the law.

                          Aunt Idle didn’t immediately make a connection between the name Brynjúlfursdóttir and Bronklehampton, indeed it would have been impossible to do so using conventional means, Icelandic naming laws and traditions being what they were. But the intuitive Idle had made a connection notwithstanding. The maudlin woman in the beach bar was clearly the mad doctors mother.

                          Idle had invited Margit to come and stay at the Flying Fish Inn for a few weeks before returning to Iceland, a visit which turned out to last almost a year. Over the months, Margit confided in her new friend Idle. Nobody back home in Iceland knew that the doctor in the lurid headlines was her son, and Margit wanted to keep it that way, but it was a relief to be able to talk about it to someone. Idle wasn’t all that sure that Margit was fully in the picture regarding the depths to which the fruit of her loins had sunk, but she witnessed the womans outpourings with tact and compassion and they became good friends.

                          The fasten your seatbelts sign flashed and pinged. The landing at Keflavik was going to be on time.”

                          ~~~

                          ““I wish you’d told me about the 60’s fancy dress party, Margit, I’d have brought an outfit with me,” said Idle.

                          Margit looked at her friend quizzically. “What makes you think there’s a fancy dress party?”

                          “Why, all the beehive hair do’s! It’s the only explanation I could think of. If it’s not a 60’s party, then why…..?”

                          Idle noticed Margit eyeing her long grey dreadlocks distastefully. Self consciously she flung them over her shoulder, inopportunely landing the end of one of them in a plate of some foul substance the passing waiter was carrying.

                          Margit jumped at the chance. “Darling, how horrid! All that rams bottom sauce all over your hair! Do try the coconut shampoo I put in your bathroom.””

                          ~~~

                          And that was the last I’d heard from Aunt Idle.

                          #4120
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Corrie’s findings from elsewhere:

                            “It was no coincidence that “Elikozoe”, his nom de plume (he was born Albert (Al) Yokoso, from a father of Japanese descent and a mother of Cajun descent) had been sent to the Pickled Pea Inn (formerly known as the Flying Fish Inn).”

                            I thought about leaving that one out, as it seemed so nonsensical, this place has never been called the pickled pea, but I’m leaving it in for now. Might make some kind of sense somewhere down the line.

                            “This morning was quiet, but his mind was not.
                            There were always the nagging thoughts that something ought to be done, the restless fear of forgetting something of importance.
                            But this morning was quiet.
                            A bit too quiet in fact.
                            No raucous cackling to stir the soft velvety dust from the wooden floorboard.

                            Quentin was wondering whether the story makers had lost all interest in moving his story forward. Yet, he was more than willing to move it notwithstanding, his efforts seemed of little consequence however. Some piece was missing, some ever-present grace of illumination shrouded in scripting procrastination.

                            His discussion with Aunt Idle had been brief. She’d told him with great intensity that she had a weird dream. That she looked into a mirror and saw herself. Or something like that,… she was not a very coherent woman, the ging wasn’t helping.

                            Maybe his task was done. Time to leave the Pickled Pea Inn.
                            His friend Eicnarf seemed eager to see him. Or maybe that had been a typo and she really meant to sew him, or saw him,… she could be gory like that…

                            No matter, a trip out of the brine cloud of this sand coated place would do him good.”

                            And good riddance, you cheeky bugger, I can’t help thinking.

                            ““Did anybody see our last guest?” Mater couldn’t help but regularly count her herds (so to speak), and although she wasn’t as authoritative with her guests as she was with her family members, she couldn’t help but notice that her last count was one person short —enough to start worrying her.

                            “Hmm lwwft thws hhmmmng” said Idle, her mouth full with cookies.

                            Mater shrugged. It was still better than when she used to talk with sauerkraut.”

                            I had better ask Clove to remind me how to do italics I suppose. This could get confusing.

                            #4084

                            In reply to: Coma Cameleon

                            Jib
                            Participant

                              Lily was lost. She had closed her eyes and was listening to the voices of the crowd. She had discovered that she could make it appear as if they were all the same voice or many different voices just by wishing it. At the moment she was more comfortable with only one voice, but the voice made no sense at all. So she wasn’t listening to it.

                              Her mother had once told her that when she was lost, she should always stay at the same spot so that her parents could find her. And she couldn’t speak to strangers. It was easier if she had her eyes closed.

                              Someone touched her arm. She pretended it was the branch of a tree. It was easier when she had her eyes closed to make the fear disappear. Her parents would be back soon.

                              #4076

                              In reply to: Coma Cameleon

                              F LoveF Love
                              Participant

                                “Aaron, it’s time.”

                                A female voice. But low for woman, and harsh. Not gentle like his mother’s voice. The voice on the other side of the wooden door was familiar although at that moment Aaron could not have attached a name or a face to the voice.

                                A knock.

                                “Aaron, are you there? It’s time. We can’t be late.”

                                Aaron’s insides contracted. Reflexively he closed his eyes. At the same time his right hand moved to cover the watch on his left wrist—a gift from his father when he turned 10 years old. He did these things without thinking.

                                If he had thought, if he had had the luxury of time to analyse these small movements—and it was clear from the voice that he did not—he would have come to the conclusion that he hoped to block out the truth of what the voice was saying.

                                “Aaron!” The tone had changed. Now, the voice implied a threat.

                                Still without thought, Aaron picked up his jacket and a small brown suitcase and moved slowly towards the voice.

                                #4072

                                Aunt Idle was going to visit her old friend Margit Brynjúlfursdóttir. It was all very hush hush: Margit had intimated that there was to be a family reunion, but it was to be a surprise party, and she mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Margit had sent her the tickets to Keflavik, instructing her to inform her family and friends that she had won the trip in a story writing competition.

                                It was Idle’s first trip to Iceland. She had met Margit in a beach bar near Cairns some years ago, just after the scandalous expose on the goings on of a mad doctor on a remote south Pacific island. The Icelandic woman had been drowning her sorrows, and Idle had been a shoulder to cry on. The age old story of a wayward son, a brilliant mind, so full of potential, victim of a conniving nurse , and now sadly incarcerated on the wrong side of the law.

                                Aunt Idle didn’t immediately make a connection between the name Brynjúlfursdóttir and Bronklehampton, indeed it would have been impossible to do so using conventional means, Icelandic naming laws and traditions being what they were. But the intuitive Idle had made a connection notwithstanding. The maudlin woman in the beach bar was clearly the mad doctors mother.

                                Idle had invited Margit to come and stay at the Flying Fish Inn for a few weeks before returning to Iceland, a visit which turned out to last almost a year. Over the months, Margit confided in her new friend Idle. Nobody back home in Iceland knew that the doctor in the lurid headlines was her son, and Margit wanted to keep it that way, but it was a relief to be able to talk about it to someone. Idle wasn’t all that sure that Margit was fully in the picture regarding the depths to which the fruit of her loins had sunk, but she witnessed the womans outpourings with tact and compassion and they became good friends.

                                The fasten your seatbelts sign flashed and pinged. The landing at Keflavik was going to be on time.

                                #4047
                                Jib
                                Participant

                                  Back at her desk after a crash course at zumba with the Chinese team, Connie was sorting her e-mails (meaning sending them to trash). Nothing fancy, nothing catchy, nothing to grab her attention span for more than a minute.

                                  The noise of the open space was making her feel drowsy. Maybe a coffee would help her wake up, or maybe if something could happen to stir the pot. Connie deleted a few more e-mails to show the others that she was a busy reporter before leaving her desk.
                                  Passing by the desks of her colleagues, Connie looked surreptitiously at their computer screens and saw that everyone was playing the busy game. It was sad to recognize that good news (meaning bad news) were hard to come by nowadays.

                                  In times like these, she had to resist the tentation to create her own news, it was not that kind of press. But still toying with the idea and making up some outrageous stories with her team was a way to make time fly away more quickly. Once, Hilda had even reused one of the titles for a real stories that sadly happened shortly after she had made it up.
                                  Rumour had it that Hilda’s great grand mother was a gypsy and could do palm reading. The gran even used palm tree leaves to do her reading when there was nobody, you just had to cut the leave in the shape of the person you wanted to read the future and she would tell you all about them. She was good.
                                  “It runs in the family,” Hilda had said. “It’s helpful to be at the right place at the right time.” And for sure she was the most prolific reporter of the agency.
                                  Connie sure would have used some of Hilda’s medium inner sight to know when something would happen.

                                  She made herself a cappuccino and with the milk drew the face of Al Pacino. Many years at a press agency and you learn a few tricks to impress your friends.
                                  She heard the slow and uneven pace of sweet old Sophie behind her. She sighed, she didn’t want to have to answer another of her dumb questions about the future. If Hilda could read bits of the future, Sophie was always thirsty about it. Maybe that’s why Hilda was more often in the field and not so often at her desk.

                                  Connie turned and almost dropped her cappuccino as the old lady handed her a Fedex envelop.
                                  “Sorry,” said sweet old Sophie, “That just arrived for you. I wonder what it is.”
                                  “I’m sure you do,” muttered Connie.
                                  “It’s from Santa Claus,” said the old lady with a conniving smile.
                                  Connie looked at the old lady, with a forced smile. Was insanity a cause to get rid of one of your employee ? She took the package with one hand. Heavier than she had expected. When she saw the address, she couldn’t believe it was real. The sender’s and city’s names were certainly fake. Jesus Carpenter, Santa Claus, AZ
                                  Sophie was still there, looking at Connie with a big smile.
                                  “What are you waiting for ?” the reporter asked.
                                  “Aren’t you opening it?”

                                  Connie considered opening the package, but the avidity on the old face was making her uncomfortable. “Nope,” she said. With her cappuccino and the package she went back to her desk. Sweet Sophie was still looking at her with that greedy smile on her face. Connie shivered and shook her head. It was obvious, the old tramp was mad.
                                  She touched the package, trying to guess what was inside. As no convincing guess presented itself in her mind, she stripped it open. There was an iPhone 5 SE with 64Gb memory in it, two plane tickets for Keflavik in Iceland, and a note.
                                  ‘If you want a good story prepare your suitcase. Bring Sweet Sophie with you. We’ll contact you once you are there.’

                                  Connie thought of a joke. She checked the package and no matter how many times she looked it was still her name. She looked toward the cafeteria and she shuddered. Sweet Sophie was still looking at Connie with that strange smile, as if she knew. Or as if she had sent the package herself, the reporter thought.
                                  “Someone knows where Hilda is ? I need to talk to Hilda.”

                                  #4045
                                  TracyTracy
                                  Participant

                                    “She aint been right since she covered that emotion show thing, has she?” remarked Flanigan, pushing the broom along with his arthritic bony fingers, and jerking his head in Connie’s direction.

                                    “Bloody ridiculous if you ask me, asking for trouble,” replied the young trainee janitor, Godwin. “I could have told her, it’ll come to no good tampering with mother natures emotions,” he added, wiping a tear from his eye.

                                    “Steady on, what are you crying for? Pull yourself together, boy, and go and clean them toilets.”

                                    Godwin gave Flanigan a withering look, and stomped off towards the lavatories, sniffing loudly.

                                    #3938
                                    Jib
                                    Participant

                                      Roberto had just heard the end of their conversation. I want to hear about dear cousin Badul, the old tart had said to the maid. Something in his brain was triggered by that name, something he had been led to forgot by his handlyer in Vegas before… his mission. Yes he remembered now that he had a mission. But still all the little tickling wheels in his brain were catching up with the forgotten memories.

                                      He looked inside the house. The old tart was handling what looked like a sheep skull. Was she doing some dark magic ? Was she a bruja ? He was not particularly superstitious or religious, but he had learned to fear the brujas of his village in the desert.

                                      “Put that on the library between Byron and Baudelaire, will you?”
                                      The maid looked at the skull, then at her mistress with the same rollling eyes. Oh it was subtle, so very sutble that the old lady had certainly not seen it, but he had been trained to read people’s faces… well he had read an old book of Chinese face reading that his grand mother had when he was living there… That’s why they recruited him.

                                      The maid left with the skull, removed a few books from the shelf and put the skull unceremoniously in between. She shoved the remaining books randomly on other shelves and shrugged.
                                      “I’m going to make a banana yogurt cake… without yogurt”, she said to nobody in particular.

                                      #3887
                                      TracyTracy
                                      Participant

                                        It was no coincidence that “Elikozoe”, his nom de plume (he was born Albert (Al) Yokoso, from a father of Japanese descent and a mother of Cajun descent) had been sent to the Pickled Pea Inn (formerly known as the Flying Fish Inn).

                                        #3832

                                        “‘allo? ‘allo, is Fanella there? Zis is ‘er friend, Mirabelle, wiz an urgent message.”

                                        “A massage, you say? For Fanella?” Vincentius covered the phone with his hand and shouted “Oy! get down off there, you rascals, and go and call your mother, she’s wanted on the phone. Somebody about a massage.”

                                        “No, no, a message! I must speak to Fanella about ‘er fiance,” the woman said.

                                        “Well bloody speak properly then,” Vincentius muttered. “Bloody foreigners!”

                                        Vincentius, for goodness sake, can’t you keep these children under control!” Fanella said crossly, irritated at being interrupted from her massage. “Couldn’t you have just taken a message? And get this place tidied up before Gustave comes over!”

                                        Vincentius scowled, his once handsome features faded with drudgery. He’d been a fool to leave the old country, notwithstanding the destruction. He should have chanced it, dodged the bombs, he’d have been a free man still. This life of servitude as a fostered refugee wasn’t what he’d hoped for when he set off in the overcrowded dinghy all those months ago. Cold, wet and tired, he’d stepped ashore full of anticipation. But nobody had told him just how awful the weather was, and how dreadful the children. Spoilt wilful little rotters! No discipline, no matter how hard he tried to control them. No wonder everyone had refugee childminders these days, who but the destitute and homeless would want to look after the unspeakable brats?

                                        “In the Spotted Dick with a tart, you say?” Fanella snorted into the phone. “I’ll be there in ten minutes”

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